


A Different Kind of Brilliant

by SherlockianDinosaur



Series: The Holmes Brothers are Perfect [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Fluff, Gen, Lfuffy Fluffy Brother Fluff, Teenlock, Young Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:43:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianDinosaur/pseuds/SherlockianDinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mycroft Holmes.”<br/>A pause. His brows came up, body waking slightly as the other voice came through the phone.<br/>“Mummy? What’s happened?”<br/>His free hand rubbed down his face, wiping tiredness away as he nodded.<br/>“His classes-... Right. When’s the last time they saw him?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind of Brilliant

London prowled beneath grey fog. The black-clouded sky above glowed around a half moon and street lamps attempted to shed orange light onto the pavement. The winding Thames shivered in the chill and the furnaces buzzed in the buildings.

In West End, north of the river, a phone rang and a young man cringed as the sharp sound pierced his dreams. Groaning, he threw his blankets aside. A usually imposing posture was abandoned for a sleepy trudge as he pulled the phone from the receiver. “Mycroft Holmes.”

A pause. His brows came up, body waking slightly as the other voice came through.

“Mummy? What’s happened?”

His free hand rubbed down his face, wiping tiredness away as he nodded.

“His classes-... Right. When’s the last time they saw him?”

Curses slipped beneath his breath as his spine straightened, shoulders squared.

“From where?... Okay… I have a few ideas… Of course, Mummy… Yes, I will… Goodnight.”

Phone back in it’s holder, Mycroft was still for a moment, brow furrowed and eyes glazed with racing thoughts and concerns. Finally he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing before he took in a deep breath and snapped into action. Within minutes he’d dressed and he was off into the cold.

Cabs at this hour would be rare, but the train station would be more useful anyway. He jogged the way to the station, half to fend of frigid air, half because his body felt the need to rush the way his mind was. Once he arrived he asked around for someone matching his brother’s description. Dark curls, thin body, abrasive, harsh, brilliant. No luck. He boarded a train, arrived at the next station, and asked again. He might have phoned the police were he not afraid they’d have a reason to put cuffs on him once he was found, but the homeless worked nearly as well and bribing them was less illegal.

With five million people in London, finding one that may or may not actually be in town was exceptionally draining. He promised himself that one day he’d have enough pull to be able to use his success to bend the rules.  As it was, the sun was well risen before he’d found success. In exchange for twenty quid, The woman sent Mycroft east on the river.

There were four places in the area that worried the man — places he didn’t want to find his brother. The nineteen-year-old was still learning how to manage the throbbing thoughts of his brain and Mycroft feared for his methods. The elder brother had gone through it himself and he couldn’t deny that he had considered altering his mind with exterior substances, but the fact that he’d abstained meant nothing for Sherlock. Two hours later he could at least be glad none of the area’s dealers had seen him. It was one of the clients, a hard paying junky, who finally gave him a location in exchange for thirty pounds that Mycroft pretended wouldn’t buy him his next fix.

The river at his left, Mycroft pulled his coat tighter around himself still, the cold long since biting through his coat. He hates still to admit it was coincidence that he finally set eyes on Sherlock and never will he express the relief he felt when he did.

The wind pushed at short curls and he had his chin down against his chest as he walked, hands in pockets and arms glued to his side in every attempt to stay warm. Mycroft made his way across the street, coming up behind him and putting a hand on his shoulder.

The young Sherlock was quick to react, grabbing the wrist of his ‘attacker’ and spinning on his heal, ready to pull Mycroft to the ground before he recognised him, sneered, turned to continue walking.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft didn’t follow, holding position with a stern voice.

The response came without Sherlock even lifting his head. “Go home. Tell her I’m fine. I’m not going back.”

“Sherlock,” he called again, catching up to him and falling into his irked stride.

“You’ve been missing class for two weeks.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Well I hope you’re quite finished.”

“I’m not.” Sherlock’s words practically cut off the end of Mycroft’s sentence. He sidestepped an oncoming pram with the intention of running Mycroft into it, but the elder Holmes kept stride.

“You’ve only been at university for three semesters, you can’t get into these habits.”

“I can if I don’t go back.” Sherlock finally looked to his brother, his expression hard with conviction. “I told you I couldn’t do it. I _said_ I wasn’t made for it and I’m not; I can’t take it.”

“I understand the difficulty, but-”

“But you managed so I must be able to. If only I didn’t waste myself.” Sherlock snorted, looked ahead. “Mummy told me.”

There was a beat of quiet between them. That argument had already been had too many times before. Mycroft was revered, Sherlock was criticised. All too often this led to the words _perfect_ and _defect_ and Mycroft was too tired to spend another hour trying to convince Sherlock otherwise. Catching his brother’s arm, he stopped and waved to the cafe at their right. They were both freezing, but Mycroft could see Sherlock’s hesitation before the silent snarl and concession. Once inside with hot tea, Mycroft finally spoke. “What exactly have you been busy with, then?”

“Work.”

“Work?”

“Obviously, what else?”

“Play.” The word was spoken with old accusation. Yet another old argument. Ignoring Sherlock’s scowl, Mycroft looked him over again. “I assume you’re still on criminal justice, though I doubt you’re with Scotland Yard given your record. I implore you,” Mycroft drawled, “to tell me about this new job.”

Sherlock seemed to be caught between anger and nerves. “I’m undercover, as it were.”

Mycroft raised a brow. “I do hope you’re kidding.”

Sherlock creased his brow in irritated confusion.

“I feared as much.” Without the aid of the Yard, Mycroft knew undercover merely meant diving into the underbelly of London and associating with the criminal in question until proof was found. Mycroft’s reasons for concern were justified, but Sherlock didn’t appear to recognise that.

Rolling his eyes, the younger brother pushed his tea aside so he could lean forward, punctuating his words. “I’m fine.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger.”

“I’m making a point.”

A brow arched, Mycroft lowered his chin. “Which point?”

“That I’m right and their lot’s made up of idiots.” Sherlock sat back, but read Mycroft’s answer before he could say it. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need it, I’m right.”

“I have no doubt that you’re correct, Sherlock, I doubt that you’re considering yourself. You are mortal, you realise. The danger you’re placing upon yourself outweighs the likelihood of success.”

“You’re missing the point!” Sherlock hissed.

Unfazed, Mycroft drawled, “Enlighten me.”

“Two murders, they’ve been in the papers, the axe-killer one and the woman with the towel.” He spoke quickly, laying out his knowledge. “They’ve been listed separately, run by different officers, but they’re connected. It’s obvious, it’s so _simple_ , but they won’t listen. There’s going to be a third kill tonight and I can stop it and get evidence of the attempt.”

“And if you fail?”

“I won’t. The art of disguise is hiding in plain sight. I’ll be fine.”

“And the art of not getting shot is holding your tongue,” Mycroft answered immediately. “But I don’t think you’ve managed that one.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath, scooting out of his booth to leave. “You’ve always underestimated me.”

The words struck Mycroft in a way he hadn’t expected. Brow creased, he was stunned for just a moment before speaking, calling Sherlock from his exit just in time. “I hope you don’t believe that.”

“Mycroft, you cond-”

“You’re wrong.” again his voice had turned hard, trying to force him to understand.

Sherlock hesitated minutely before returning with the same vehemence. “I’m the reckless younger brother, Mycroft. I will always be the fuck-up, I will always be the one that needs fixing.

I’ve accepted that. Drop it.”

“You are brilliant in ways I never will be, just as the opposite is true.” He spoke the words as if they were a hard accusation as he got up stand toe-to-toe with Sherlock.

The detective faltered briefly. Hesitated. Re-built his wall. “I already am.”

“We are far from finished, here.” Mycroft’s voice had softened, expression opening into something intentionally readable.

Sherlock seemed to soften as well. He wanted to make a cutting remark, but seemed unable to execute. “Then you can hardly imagine how brilliant I’ll be.”

Mycroft practically smiled. “I’ve been thinking that your whole life, Sherlock.”

The younger brother paused. His eyes were younger than they had been, his expression, with smooth brows and parted lips, was that of askance rather than stubborn certainty. Mycroft himself could hardly believe something so sincere had left his lips.

Mycroft finally broke the silence, but kept his voice low. “I suspect there will be no swaying you.”

“None.”

“Of course. And you won’t be telling me where you’ll be.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll find the case in the papers.”

“Will you ever learn to mind your own business.” Sherlock’s words weren’t edged with their usual animosity.

“It’s not something I’ve ever excelled at.”

The younger smirked.

“I’ll tell Mummy you’re with me.”

Back straightening in well-hidden surprise, Sherlock didn’t have to speak to ask if there was a catch.

“I expect you’ll drop by my flat once this is over.”

“Fine.”

Leaning over to pull his coat from his seat, Mycroft threw it around his shoulders, dropping a fiver on the table. He’d caught the look of reflection in his brother’s face but knew better than to ask.

“Mycroft-” Sherlock cut himself off.

The expression was well recognised — teeth-clenched, jaw stiff, eyes insistent in their held gaze. Mycroft didn’t have to think to see the ‘ _Thank you’_  his brother’s pride forbid him from expressing. Mycroft gave a nod and Sherlock’s lips twitched so slightly Mycroft might have missed were he not watching for it.

With that he turned and was lost again in the people outside, leaving Mycroft with his own mouth turned up in a faint smile.

He ignored exhaustion as he squared his shoulders and made for the door, only imagining the reach of his brother’s brilliance.

 


End file.
